


First Time for Everything

by DenmarkStreetGutterClub



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29985183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenmarkStreetGutterClub/pseuds/DenmarkStreetGutterClub
Summary: guess away, clue-hunters!
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	First Time for Everything

**Author's Note:**

> guess away, clue-hunters!

The evening is still cool, when her brisk stride carries her through the glass lobby door that is held open for; she entertains the poetic notion that she can still taste a hint of winter in the air. Her head is held high and steady, her step sure and defiant across the polished marble, and it isn’t until her thin stiletto heels sink into the plush carpeting of the empty lift that she sinks, too, her shoulders sagging, her eyes closing; that was entirely too close.

She stares in the lift mirror, her emotions running wild in the absurd blanket of quiet, and she checks her watch before silently telling her reflection that she is fine, this is fine, it worked out.

She is late; he is waiting. He stands, his eyes burning hot and his dark hair the rumpled remainder of frustrated pulls of his large hand. Beyond the half-opened patio door, there is a cigarette smoking in the ash tray.

He comes forward, nodding, he's guessed the evening would turn out this way and he's right, of course, he knows her well. She knows herself, too, and what she's capable of, and the obvious relief that laces his low voice makes her angry. 

He is speaking in that way that he has, his eyes holding hers and his Cornish burr slightly exaggerated as he climbs over the rise of every rhetorical question; his anger is a cold challenge, and she thinks to herself, bitterly, her face growing heated in response to that chilly logic of his, didn't she think there was still a hint of winter in the air? 

Her anger is painful; it's not as refined as his, but then she's spent a lifetime trying to bank it, to tame it, to make it more palatable. She's a skilled woman, but her anger needs practice; she wields it more wildly than he does.

He stops and swallows; an emotional tell. She sheds her coat; it feels like exposing her vulnerability along with the layer of clothing. This is new ground they are breaking, so they go warily. 

There is a thrill to this, too, that she can be angry with him; this new ground is safe and solid enough for her to stand on and fling her feelings at him, this is another part of her, after all, there's been kisses on the bridge of her nose and cute asides about the football matches and safe banter about leaving half-filled mugs of tea about, but this is real, and it’s good that he can see it, even better that he can take it.

She can see what he’s saying and she can also be right, and beneath the steady stream of his reasoning, she can see the worry, yes, but also the respect, and this is what makes her glad, in her anger, this is what is making her heart a drumbeat against her ribs.

I don't need you worry about me, she bursts, and even though it's true it's not true; she wants his worry, his care, his love. 

So she tells him that, too, because there is truth along with her anger.

His face changes, then, the shuttered reasoning giving way to open adoration. She hasn’t seen it often, that expression, but she sees it more and more. His voice is low again, direct, and he tells her that he loves her, and that he was worried. 

Her anger is fading, dissolving, and the emotions running rampant have nowhere to go, so they’re morphing into something else, and she can see the same thing is happening to him, the relief and intent expression is changing into something wilder.

His eyes are still burning, but now there’s a spark to them, a heat in his gaze that’s like flame along her skin, and each step closer is not close enough so she moves towards him but he’s already there, and his hands down her arms, on the small of her back, are smoothing out the last wrinkles of their first argument, his tongue against hers a slow, sensual apology; he’s taking his time and making it a good one.

He’s a physical man, and this is something she’ll never get tired of discovering; he cups the back of her head gently, his sure fingers that thread through her hair before his arms are moving to cup her arse, flexing as he lifts her slightly against the wall. He’s hard, and as she rubs herself against him he hefts her further up, encouraging the friction that’s both gratification and torment, he moves against her with a deliberate, grinding rhythm.

This part is familiar, and although she's heard him make that rough, helpless sound in his chest when her fingers begin their tug at his belt, although he noses aside her wrap dress and takes a peaked nipple with practiced teeth, taking the edge off her craving, there is a drive to this that is new and different. 

His mouth is warm, velvet softness. He bites, and flicks his tongue. She gasps. She undulates. She needs him, they need each other, they crossed a line tonight and it's brought them closer, and now they need to prove it to each other.

He is kissing her again, but this is not the careful apology from earlier; this is the hard-line promise of what's to come. He lifts her away from the wall, braced above him, and she slides down into his arms and he walks them over the bed and this is the part where the promise is vocal, he talks to her, croons to her, states in his direct way exactly what he's going to do to her, how he's going to make her feel and then she's on all fours and he's sliding home and she keens forward, this moment of connection always overwhelming. 

He's moving, back and forth, she's groaning as deeply as he's stroking into her, and she won't reach climax like this but she will when his deft thumb reaches forward and makes its own promise, and she feels it happen, the moment of give and take, the pressure and release, dizzying in its depth. 

They're lying down, half-dressed, messy and satiated and turned towards each other. 

I'm sorry I can be such an arse, he says, and she doesn't say it's okay, because it isn't: he has to learn to trust her. 

But she does stroke his hair, then his stubbled cheek, and then he says it anyways: you're capable, I trust you. It's hard, he adds. The waiting. 

It matters that he told her this, it matters that he waits for her. 

That was our first real fight, she notes.

First time for everything, he says dryly, but with his grin, and she laughs, and he kisses her again, and they're back on familiar ground, and it's even stronger.


End file.
